


Left Me To Remain

by Crowgirl



Series: Scars Remind Us [19]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demons, Hunting, M/M, PTSD, mention of Hell, mention of sexual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-19
Updated: 2011-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-26 07:02:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing discussion, and ramifications thereof, between Dean and Castiel about the after-effects of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left Me To Remain

XIX.

‘Hey, I think I found us a case.’ Sam has his laptop and a week’s worth of newspapers spread over the kitchen table when Dean comes in to eat lunch.

‘Oh, thank God.’ Dean knocks the faucet on with his elbow and begins the futile task of trying to scrub motor oil off his hands with hand soap and a dish sponge. ‘If I spend one more freakin’ day trying to rebuild that Volkswagen, I swear it’ll be my last. What’cha you got?’

‘Well – a couple of towns over -- ’ Sam clicks through Internet windows for a minute, then pulls up a YouTube video.

Dean holds up one dripping hand. ‘Give me the short version.’

Sam rolls his eyes, but kills the video as it starts to burble. ‘Fine. Technophobe.’

‘Fuck you – I have a cell phone.’ Dean snags a towel off the fridge door.

‘Anyway, the short version: a couple of towns over, place called Windsor – six people have died in the last three weeks.’

Dean raises an eyebrow. ‘And your point?’

‘Well, they were all pretty much gutted.’

‘Anything missing? Heart, liver, brain?’ Dean tosses the towel over the back of a chair and turns to the fridge.

‘Not that I’ve found out, but the bodies were in pretty rough shape. The coroner might not have been able to tell.’

‘Okay, so far I don’t see where we come in.’ Dean snags a piece of pizza out of a greasy cardboard box and closes the fridge again.

‘The local police aren’t having much luck and--’

‘And your point is? When are the local police _ever_ having luck?’ He leans back against the fridge, picking sausage out of the congealed cheese.

‘Are you done now? The local police aren’t having any luck _and,’_ Sam continues, bearing down on the word in what Dean considers an unnecessary fashion, ‘if you can explain to me how six gutted bodies in three weeks with all the bodies found in their own bedrooms in their own locked houses is your average every day kinda thing – I’ll order you a whole new pizza.’

Dean shrugs. ‘Okay. It’s gotta be better than rebuilding that transmission for the ninth time.’

* * *

‘I don’t know what else I can tell you.’

‘Well, you were one of the investigating officers,’ Sam prompts. Dean is perched on the arm of a sofa behind him, doing his best blank FBI agent stare.

Lieutenant Karen Frei shrugs. ‘You’ve seen all the paperwork, my reports--’ She looks up at the two of them and leans back in her desk chair. ‘Who did you say called you in again?’

‘Captain Martell,’ Dean fills in.

‘Before he went on vacation?’

‘That’s right.’

She looks thoughtfully out the window for a minute, then shrugs. ‘Like I said, I don’t know what else I can tell you.’

‘Was there anything...odd about the crime scenes?’ Sam suggests and Dean can tell even from behind that he’s trying the sympathetic puppy-dog look.

Karen looks unimpressed. ‘You mean, aside from the inside-out corpses?’

‘They were inside-out?’ Sam reaches for his notepad.

‘Figure of speech. They were damn _near_ inside-out, though,’ she adds after a moment’s consideration. ‘Did you see the crime scene photos?’

Dean’s stomach rolls at the memory. Every time he thinks he’s seen about as nasty as it can get, there is, amazingly, worse. He wasn’t even sure he would have known the corpses started as adult humans – four women, two men – if he hadn’t known before looking at the photographs.

‘Yeah, impressive, huh?’ Karen sighs, runs her hands through her hair. ‘You know you’re in a weird place when you’re _hoping_ for a sick-ass serial killer. At least they leave some sort of a trail. There’d be _something_ to go on.’

‘And there’s nothing like that here?’

She shakes her head. ‘Nothing. The houses were untouched apart from the bedroom; no doors or windows were forced; there hadn’t been repair guys or handymen or anything around any of the properties recently. None of the deceased knew each other or worked in the same place or went to the same gym or were in the same book club or anything like that. In one case, the landlord had been by to check out a leaking cellar, but he had no connection to any of the others, the victim hadn’t been home when he stopped by, and he’d been in New York for two of the other killings. It’s a pretty damned good alibi unless he can fly.’

Dean chokes back a snort just in time. Unless the whole town is made of up Alastair’s cadre, he doesn’t figure there’s a murderous angel on the loose tracking down random Midwesterners.

‘So --’ Sam looks at the notes he’s been taking. ‘Nothing taken from the houses – anything...similar about the scenes?’

She shrugs. ‘You saw the photos. Apart from the blood – there wasn’t much.’

‘And there wasn’t anything missing from the bodies themselves?’

She looks revolted for a second, then professionalism covers it. ‘No. Not that the coroner could tell. Of course – the damage was pretty bad. Our guy had someone else come in to double-check the work for him.’

‘And did he find anything the first guy missed?’ Dean is starting to feel impatient. This looks like being a waste of their time.

She looks up at him and seems to think for a minute. ‘Well – he confirmed sexual assault. Frank hadn’t been sure.’ She shakes her head, her eyes unfocussing a little. ‘Be glad you weren’t in that briefing, guys. Randy was...real clear on the details, lets put it that way. I didn’t know you could do some of those things. Not all to the same person, anyway.’

Dean feels the blood leave his head. Through the harsh buzzing in his ears, he can hear Sam asking earnestly: ‘So the victims had been assaulted?’

‘Looks that way. So we’re thinking it’s probably someone they knew – maybe invited back for a fun evening – hey --’ Karen half-stands. ‘Are you okay?’

Sam glances back and sees Dean has gone nearly white; there are dark smears of color under his cheekbones and his eyes are shuttered in that way Sam knows means nothing good. He stands up, shoving his notebook hurriedly in a pocket, and steps back to his brother. ‘Dean?’

‘Dean?’ Karen echoes. ‘I thought you said--’

‘I’m fine – I’m fine.’ Dean shakes off Sam’s hand, makes himself stand up. ‘I’ll...I’m just...tired. Long night. Lots of driving.’ His tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth and he’s not entirely sure how he’s making sense to anyone else.

‘There’s a coffee machine in the office.’ Karen points. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Thanks. You’ll finish up here?’

‘Yeah – sure.’ Sam steps back, lets him go, and resists the urge to follow him straight out.

* * *

Dean finds his way into the outer office, pours a half-cup of coffee into a cardboard cup, and carries it with undue care out into the parking lot. The Impala is pulled up across the street at the edge of a grocery store lot. There’s a bench at the edge of the police station lot, though, and he makes it there before the shakes hit and he can’t stand.

* * *

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset your partner.’ Karen sits again, looking slightly abashed. ‘I...you don’t think about it, y’know?’ She reaches out and picks up a paper clip, begins to straighten it, pressing the curves against the edge of her desk. ‘Maybe that’s a bad thing.’

‘He’ll be fine. We had a long drive to get here.’ Sam pulls his notebook out and stares at his own handwriting. ‘Uh...was there anything else?’

She sighs. ‘Not really. The second pathologist confirmed assault – on all six victims which makes it a bit of a bastard, honestly. Four women and two men – have to be a hell of a killer to go after the whole mixed bag. All different ages, three different races...doesn’t match up with anything I know. And if it isn’t the same person, then we’ve got God knows how many sick bastards to track down.’

‘And you’ve never had anything like this in this town before?’

She shakes her head. ‘Thank Christ.’

* * *

Dean wraps his hands around the thin cup and stares at the greasy slick forming on the cooling coffee. He can still feel the blood pounding in his temples and the sound of traffic behind him is only now breaking through the buzzing in his ears, but he no longer feels as though he’s about to keel over.

‘Fuck it.’ He takes the bitter coffee as if it’s a shot of liquor and winces.

‘Hey, Dean – what the hell happened in there?’ Sam is walking towards him, shrugging out of his black suit jacket.

Dean scowls at him. ‘Nothing. ‘m tired.’

‘Dude, I’ve seen you run for three days on two hours of sleep.’

‘Maybe I’m gettin’ old.’ Dean crumples the cup and tosses it at the nearby trashcan.

‘Dean--’ Sam touches his shoulder and Dean can’t stop himself wincing away. ‘--what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing!’ Dean shoots to his feet, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets and glowering at his younger brother, knowing damn well he doesn’t deserve it. ‘Can we just get on with this damned case now?’

* * *

The rest of the afternoon is uneventful. A survey of the victims’ houses with the EMP reveals nothing. One woman might have had a ghost in her cellar, but it’s weak and Dean and Sam can’t agree whether or not they see anything.

* * *

The nearest motel is something called the Blue Bird Inn – everything in the room is blue as far as Dean can tell with the possible exception of the lightbulb and the toilet paper and he’s not sure about the bulb because the lampshade is navy blue.

Sam pokes around on his laptop for a bit, flipping through the digital photographs of the case files he had illegally photographed on his cell. Dean stretches out on the blue paisley bedspread, stares up at the light blue acoustic tiles, and tries not to think.

Sam finally breaks the silence. ‘Y’know – I think maybe a couple of these people had been at the same bar just before they died.’

‘At the same time?’

Sam shrugs. ‘Don’t know. But it’s worth checking out.’

Dean groans back to his feet. ‘Yeah – c’mon.’

* * *

The bar is crowded, noisy, and Dean is not in the right mood. Sam immediately starts in on the bartender, leaving Dean to his own devices. He can’t focus on the beer in front of him and the presence of people pressing close to his shoulders is starting to make his head pound.

‘You must be feeling better.’

He glances up and finds the blonde police officer, Karen something, smiling at him from the next stool. ‘Uh – yeah, yeah. Feel fine now. Sorry – about this afternoon.’ He waves one hand lamely. ‘Long day.’ He has no idea if he’s being convincing or not and he doesn’t really care.

‘So your partner said.’ She gestures at the bartender and a glass of whiskey appears in front of her. ‘It can get tough sometimes.’

‘What can?’ Dean takes a sip of beer without tasting it.

‘The job. Looking at shit like that all the time, thinking about it all the time.’ She shrugs. ‘It gets tough.’

‘Yeah. I guess.’

She drains the whiskey in a long swallow and, as Dean glances at her in admiration, turns to him with coal-black, pupil-less eyes. ‘Sometimes it’s a little different.’

Dean bites back his involuntary exclamation and scrabbles under his jacket for his gun.

‘What’re you gonna do, baby?’ She puts a hand on his knee and smiles at him. ‘Blow me away in front of all these people? You must _really_ want to go back to jail, Dean.’

He closes his fingers around the grip, but can’t draw the weapon. Her hand is cold on his knee, even through the denim of his jeans. He can feel the sharp points of her nails digging into his flesh. ‘Get the fuck away from me.’

She cocks her head. ‘But I’ve been looking for you all this time. I finally got sick of looking and set up this little gig.’ She grins at him. ‘Pretty sweet, huh?’

Dean grits his teeth, a bitter taste creeping up the back of his throat. He swallows hard. ‘What. The fuck. Do you want.’

‘I just missed you.’ Her hand is back on his leg, playing at the crotch seam of his jeans and he twitches back, presses against the bar in an attempt to get away from her. Her hand follows him, though, teasing at him through the denim, making it absolutely clear to him that she can feel what his body is doing without his agreement. ‘Don’t you remember the fun we used to have?’

His throat closes. Where the fuck is Sam when he needs him?

‘You do, don’t you?’ Her other hand is creeping up his chest, smoothing over his ribs. A fingernail flicks at one nipple and he jerks again. She smiles at him, her teeth sharp now. ‘Oh, yes, you do.’ Her hand presses over his crotch for a minute, almost painful, then lifts away. ‘All those photos – did you like my work, baby? You used to.’

Christ, what the _fuck_ is Sam doing? He can see his brother’s back a few yards away but he can’t make his voice work. His hand is closed over the grip of his gun but the demon’s right: he can’t risk taking her out in the middle of this crowd. And he’s not sure he could take the shot in any case.

‘Did you like the third one? That was just for you, loverboy.’ She leans close to him, her hands sliding up the outside of his thighs. ‘That used to be one of your _favorites--’_

‘How about--’ Sam’s voice is the most welcome thing he thinks he’s heard in years. ‘--you let my brother go, bitch.’ Sam’s hands fall heavy on the demon’s shoulders and Dean rips away from her hands, stumbling to his feet.

The demon doesn’t seem unduly concerned. Instead, she cranes her head back to look at Sam. ‘Oh, I can take care of you, too, sugar—there’s plenty to go ‘round--’ She reaches out towards Sam, fingernails lengthening into something like claws.

Dean grabs her hand before he can think, twisting her wrist backwards, feeling more than hearing the snap of bone. ‘Don’t you _dare_ fucking touch him.’

Sam catches the woman’s other arm, twists it behind her back, and rapidly frogmarches her out of the bar with Dean close behind.

* * *

The exorcism leaves Sam winded and tired and the woman, luckily, unconscious. They take her to the nearest ER, turn her in with the story of seeing her slip in the parking lot of the bar: No, they don’t know her name; no, they’re just passing through and stopped off for a beer before checking into their motel; no, they don’t know anyone in town; no, no-one in the bar knew her.

Dean drives them back to the motel in silence. Sam seems half-asleep by the time they get there. Dean spends a little more time than is absolutely necessary checking the car and locking it up, hoping that Sam will be asleep by the time he gets into the room. He opens the door as gently as he can, growling silently at himself for sneaking into a motel room to avoid his little brother.

‘So – d’you want to tell me, or should I just guess?’ Sam is stretched out on his bed, hands linked over his chest, eyes closed.

Dean scowls at him and closes the door. ‘Tell you what?’

Sam is silent for several long minutes and Dean starts to breathe a little easier, thinking that he’s dropped off. He slips off his boots near the door and pads across to his own bed.

‘Dean...if you don’t want to talk about it...’

‘I don’t.’ Dean shucks off his jacket, tosses it at the end of the bed.

Sam sighs. ‘Okay.’

Unexpectedly, he remains silent.

Dean stretches back on his bed, crossing his hands behind his head and staring up at the blue-tinted acoustic panels. It’s not even a really nice shade of blue.

Sam is still silent, but Dean can almost _feel_ him being quiet. He can _hear_ the questions Sam’s not asking. It’s a trick the kid’s had since he was a teenager: being silent _at_ Dean until Dean can’t take it any more.

He closes his eyes. ‘Look...you don’t wanna know, Sammy.’

More silence.

 _Fuck._ ‘It just...I...’ He grits his teeth. ‘I just...my...my memory’s gettin’ a bit better. That’s all.’

Sam is still quiet.

‘Fuckin’ hell, Sammy, what do you want from me?’ He swings himself up to sitting. ‘This ain’t no Lifetime movie!’ He runs a hand over his head roughly. ‘What d’you want me to do: tell you all about how awful Hell is and sob on your shoulder? What the fuck’s the point!’

Sam sits up, looking evenly at Dean. ‘What’s the point of you pretending you’re fine when you’re not.’

‘I _am_ fuckin’ fine!’

Sam rolls his eyes. ‘You _still_ think I’m gonna fall for that, Dean?’

Dean growls and shoves himself to his feet. ‘You’re a smart kid; I bet you’ve got it all figured out anyway. What difference’s it make if I say it?’

Sam shrugs. ‘Maybe it’d make you feel better – I don’t know, Dean. But you pretending everything’s fine is just making it worse for longer!’

Dean starts stalking up and down the appallingly blue room, glowering at the blue furnishings as he passes them, wishing he had that beer that hadn’t appealed to him before. He can’t even think of what words to use. So he stops trying to think. ‘I guess angels aren’t the only ones who like the look of my ass. I guess...I guess Alastair and his buddies had a pretty good time with me one way or another. I don’t...remember all of it, but I guess that bitch tonight must’ve been one of ‘em.’ He snorts. ‘You’ll have to tell Cas – you’ve knocked one off his list.’

‘His list?’

‘Yeah, that’s where he’s been disappearing to. Tracking down the demons who –‘ His throat closes on the words and he shakes his head roughly. ‘Anyway.’

‘Dean--’

Dean holds up one hand. If Sam starts being sympathetic now, he thinks he will have to break something. ‘Just...don’t, Sammy, okay? It’s bad enough remembering it.’

‘Sympathy is worse than...’ Sam bites off the last words and holds up his hands. ‘Okay. Whatever you want.’

Dean nods sharply and flops back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling again. ‘There you go, then. Happy now?’

‘No.’

Dean swallows hard. ‘Me, neither.’

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Santa Monica," Theory of a Deadman, _Gasoline_.
> 
> I swear I really will stop torturing Dean at some point.


End file.
